Page 82 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

Don’t fuck this up? Don’t fuck what up? What did Sidney know that Gabriel didn’t? Why was Gabriel still standing here, only half dressed and clutching a posy in his sweaty fist, when the rest of his life might be waiting for him downstairs?

It felt like strange superstition to put on his favorite jacket—a slim, light blue doublet with the faintest pattern of foliage picked out in silver thread in the trim—but he did it anyway. Why not? It was his last stand, and he thought he should go out armored as best he could.

He met Gwen in the hallway. She was wearing a pinkish-red dress Gabriel had never seen before. It should have clashed horribly with her hair, but instead it had the interesting effect of making her look like a pretty illustration he’d once seen of a volcano.

“Let’s go,” she said, and Gabriel followed her down the stairs and out into a small courtyard. Agnes was there, along with most of the round table and Prince Owain and his wife, a black-haired, blue-eyed woman of tiny stature in bright Welsh yellows and reds.

Sidney and Agnes had decided to forgo two separate processions to the chapel, so Sidney had gone ahead to receive them and Agnes was to lead them there with two of her cousins by her side. She was truly radiant, wearing pale iridescent green with white flowers woven into her dark hair, smiling so much that Gabriel’s anxiety felt redoubled in contrast to her happiness.

Shut up, Gabriel told his brain.Just let this be a nice thing.

They all trooped out of the courtyard and down a narrow passage until they reached the chapel, where the archbishop himself was waiting on the doorstep, standing next to a resplendent Sidney Fitzgilbert.

At his shoulder, Arthur.

Someone—Gabriel suspected Gwen—had done something to his hair. It was glossed and brushed as usual, but there was a romantic wave to it that softened the shaggy edges, his hair set slightly away from his face somehow, drawn back at his temples.

His jacket was dark crimson silk, trimmed with lace of silk floss and gold filé at the seams and collar. Each button was painstakingly embroidered with a floral motif, and he had pinned Sidney’s nosegay right where Gabriel had, above his heart.

He was so beautiful. Gabriel felt like he might faint.

“We ought to do this inside,” Cardinal Richards said disapprovingly. “At the altar.”

Sidney, who was gazing adoringly at his bride, didn’t look away from her as he said, “This is how my parents did it, so it’s how I’m doing it. Just count yourself lucky I didn’t ask you to come and bless us in our marriage bed.”

“And you’re bloody lucky I agreed to grant the license,” the archbishop muttered, but then he cleared his throat and began the blessing. He was saying some pretty serious stuff about God and commitment, but Gabriel was looking at Arthur. Arthur, who couldn’t stop smiling, squinting slightly in the last golden sweep of sun. Who, once the rites were read—and Sidney had given Agnes the wedding gift of a ring that Gabriel knew had once belonged to Gwen—allowed his friend to kiss his bride just once before pulling him into a hug that felt like it lasted longer than the entire ceremony.

Then everyone was laughing and hugging in congratulations, the procession heading back up toward the castle. Gabriel hung back, watching them go, suddenly feeling set apart from all that joy in a way that made him want to go to his room and never come out. His council would have to wagewar with the Prince of Wales to get him back for the next budget meeting.

He remembered what Florian had said.You ought to give yourself a chance too.

Gabriel thought of Arthur in the evening sun, and followed that feeling like a bird called home.

Inside the castle the Great Hall had been garlanded with evergreens, white linens on the tables studded with a huge expense of squat candles. The air smelled like woodsmoke, the haze undercut with spiced rosemary and clove, and in the corner, musicians were playing the lute, pipe, and drum. It was crowded, people sitting elbow-to-elbow at the long tables, but for once, Gabriel hardly noticed. Most of the wedding party was already seated up on the dais.

“Here he is,” called Prince Owain, much to the chagrin of his steward, who was supposed to be on announcing duty. “All rise for the King of England.”

Everybody did, and Gabriel felt the familiar horror of being observed by hundreds of eyes, Owain encouraging them to raise their cups and cheer. Gabriel accepted a cup of his own, awkwardly toasted the crowd, and took a deep swig. This seemed to be the correct thing to do, because Owain was delighted, and Gabriel was allowed to sit.

Arthur wasn’t there. Gabriel looked at the empty chair a few seats down as if he might be able to conjure him from thin air.

“That was a lovely wedding,” Gwen said dreamily, fiddling with one of the flowers that she’d pinned in her hair.

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “G, I need to ask you if… Earlier, Sidney said something that—”

He glanced up, and there was Arthur.

Time didn’t stand still. The entire hall didn’t go silent,watching him walk to his seat. Gabriel was the only one having some sort of combination gastrointestinal and religious experience.

Arthur sat down, and then Prince Owain’s wife came gliding over, so Gabriel was formally introduced, and then Owain launched into the long story oftheirmarriage.

He only stopped talking when the steward announced Sidney and Agnes, newly wed. They entered the hall with their hands clasped and raised for all to see, and the crowd cheered enthusiastically, despite the fact that these were total strangers. The dagger now glinting at Sidney’s hip was one Gabriel recognized as Arthur’s, an expensive hand-me-down with supposedly Arthurian lineage. It must have been a wedding gift. Gabriel wondered if he should have given them something. Gwen had given them the ring, which was a family heirloom. Maybe he could take partial credit.

When they came to sit at the high table, Gwen and Arthur threw flower petals at them, neither of them managing to achieve much height, so that the couple got a faceful each and were still spitting them out as they took their seats.

“Now then, all, quiet yourselves,” Prince Owain called, getting up with his goblet in hand. He seemed to love making speeches. Gabriel wished he had a quarter of an ounce of his verve for public speaking. “We’re here to welcome the English king of course—behave, all of you—and his order of the round table, who have been questing up and down England and Wales these past weeks, facing mighty beast and fearsome knight, and our very own Lady of the Lake.”

There was an explosion of laughter and chatter around the room, and he nodded. “Yes, yes, it’s all very interesting, and I’m sure the king will regale us in good time. And I’m sure I need not remind you all, but while the English are here inour halls, we will respect them and their customs, however… strange they may seem to us.” The chatter took a slight turn. Gabriel wondered what the general reception had been in Wales when they’d announced the Lancelot laws. Probably much the same as in England.